Chapter 27: Training Grounds (3)
The blazing sun hung high over the training field like a watchful eye, turning the air into wavy lines of heat that made everything shimmer and blur at the edges. The ground baked under it—green grass patchy in spots from old spells gone wrong, dirt paths packed hard from feet pounding day after day, the whole place smelling like dry earth and sweat that hadn't quite dried from yesterday's mess. Dust kicked up with every step, hanging lazy in the light, and the faint hum of mana lines under the track glowed blue-hot, like the field's way of saying "keep going or get burned."
The sound of feet hitting the dirt filled the air—some steady and sure, like they'd been doing this forever; others stumbling, heavy breaths mixing with groans as kids hit their limits early. A few had already dropped out, sitting on the grass sides huffing, wiping faces with shirt sleeves, while the tough ones pushed on, arms pumping, faces red and shiny. It was that raw mix you get in any group workout—the ones who loved the burn laughing through it, the ones who hated it cursing under their breath, all of them connected by the suck of trying.
But way out front, pulling away from the pack like they were in their own race, two guys ran smooth and even—bodies cutting through the heat without waste, breaths deep and controlled, like they were made for this.
Lucian Blackstar and Christopher Davenson.
Their steps matched close, not side by side exactly but near enough to hear each other over the thud—Lucian's lighter, quicker, Chris's heavier but powerful, like a drum keeping time. Each lap was its own little fight: turn at the marker, push through the straight, feel the burn build in your legs and lungs, then do it again. No talking much now, just the rhythm of it—feet on dirt, heart beating steady, sun beating down harder.
The other kids noticed quick, heads turning as they ran or walked, eyes going wide like they'd seen a trick.
"Wait, is that really Lucian?" one girl panted, slowing to point, her friend next to her nodding fast. "The Blackstar kid? The one who never trained before?" the friend shot back, wiping sweat from her eyes. "He's keeping up with Christopher! How—?"
Even the ones who'd quit early, sprawled on the grass with water bottles in hand, sat up a bit, staring with mouths open, that mix of "no way" and "damn, that's cool" on their faces. Whispers spread like wildfire: "Look at him go—didn't think he had it in him." "Bet he's cheating with some spell." "Nah, that's just grit—Christopher's the best, and he's matching him lap for lap."
Up on the shaded stands by the field's edge—cool stone benches under a big awning where teachers watched—two pairs of eyes tracked them close, like they couldn't look away.
Celestia Silveria Van Lumina sat there in the shade, her white-silk hair moving soft in the breeze coming off the field, catching the sun in ways that made it glow like fresh snow. She'd finished her thirty laps easy a while back—graceful strides that didn't break a sweat, magic humming light around her like it helped without cheating—and now she leaned forward a bit, elbows on her knees, watching Lucian move across the track. The light hit his ashen white hair just right, turning it silver-bright, and she could see the line of his jaw set, sweat running down his neck, soaking his collar dark.
"I didn't think… I would see him like this again," she said soft, mostly to herself, her silver-gray eyes going distant for a second, like she was seeing more than just the run.
Though his face stayed blank—no big grin or pumped fist—there was something there in how he moved, a small peace in the way his arms swung even, feet landing sure. A tiny curve to his mouth when Chris said something low, gone quick but real. Only someone who'd loved him deep could catch it, like spotting a flower in a crack in the sidewalk.
"Maybe still… maybe there's happiness inside of him after all," she whispered, her fingers brushing light against her chest where her heart beat a little faster. "Yeah… I'll cheer for you, Lucian. Go beat Christopher for me… my dear love."
Not far from her, under the same awning but keeping space like she didn't want company, Serene Veronica Le Ardenia watched too—but her eyes weren't soft or hopeful. They burned red, fixed on Lucian like he was the only thing in the field.
Her crimson eyes gleamed hot, and her pale face flushed a bit, breath coming quicker as she watched him run. The sweat on his skin caught the sun, shining like it was made for her to see, and the way his uniform stuck to him, showing the lines of his back and arms, made her shift in her seat.
"Ahh~ your sweat, Lucian…" she thought, her tongue touching her lip without meaning to, the smell of dirt and effort hitting her even from up here, stirring something hungry inside. "I can smell you from here, my dear Lucian… that same scent that drove me mad before."
She crossed her legs slow, her body shaking a little as the thought dug in deeper. Her heart raced, and she bit her lip to hold back the wild smile fighting to show.
"Beat that training guy for me… show them all who you belong to," she whispered in her head, voice turning thick with want.
A dark smile crept over her lips anyway. "Just like before, you're so dazzling when you push yourself… but this time, you'll shine only for me."
Meanwhile, down at the field's edge, Professor Randy stood with his arms crossed tight, jaw hanging half-open like he'd bitten something sour, watching the two pull ahead like it was no big deal.
"Damn…" he muttered low, shaking his head slow. "These brats just passed my number like it was nothing…"
He clicked his tongue hard, then let out a roar that carried over the whole field, loud enough to make a few kids jump mid-stride.
"YOU SEE THAT, YOU DAMN BRATS? THOSE TWO JUST SMASHED MY NUMBER LIKE IT'S A JOKE!"
The kids still running—or walking, or stumbling—froze for a second, heads turning as he jabbed a thick finger toward Lucian and Chris, veins popping on his forehead.
"LOOK AT THEM! THAT'S WHAT YOU SHOULD BE DOING! NO GIVING UP—NO SLACKING OFF! USE THEM AS YOUR DAMN MOTIVATION, YOU LAZY BUNCH!"
A wave of groans rolled back—kids yelling "Not fair!" or "Easy for them to say!"—but even in the complaining, a few picked up speed, pushing harder like they didn't want to look soft. The field got louder, feet hitting dirt faster, that mix of mad and fired up turning the suck into something shared.
And there, under the hot sun that didn't let up, Lucian Blackstar kept running. No big joy. No real pain. No feeling showing on his face. Just the beat of his heart and the sound of his feet on the ground—echoing into the quiet empty spot inside him.
The laps kept coming, forty turning to forty-five, dust in the air, sweat in his eyes, but he ran on—alive in the burn, if only for now.